I got this recipe from my accountant, Liz. Lovely woman, not particularly fast (calls her practice the Snail's Trail) but tolerant of writers and other children. I was there one day some years ago, proud of the fact that I was on time for once and that I no longer kept my financial records in shopping bags. I had taken to buying beat-up attaché cases at garage sales and was now keeping my mess of unsorted receipts and unopened envelopes in vintage luggage.

She mentioned that it didn't make things any easier but that I would get points for style and punctuality. As a reward, she would give me her secret chili recipe. Turned out to be one of those one of each things. Like a pound cake, it existed because it was easy to remember: one onion, one bunch of celery, one can of tomatoes, one teaspoon of chili powder, one can of kidney beans and so on. Perfectly serviceable but not anything special, I thought. So I spent the past fifteen years perfecting it.

Now it earns style points—which you can always use. You're surrounded by guys who watch the Food Network and own balsamic vinegar (and call it aceto balsamico), guys who are trying to make their significant others forget Rocco DiSpirito. (If you have to ask who, you aren't one of those guys.) You, meanwhile, cook two things, right? Thing one, ribs. Thing two, chili. Time was, this was plenty for the average American male to handle. Not anymore, not in a world with Molto Mario. Unless, that is, you make your chili with baby back ribs instead of ground beef.

This recipe is the ultimate in stylish combo meals, carefully developed to make grown men whimper and women swoon—even women who've been secretly wishing you'd learn to infuse something.

Several rules. Rule one: This is cooking, not baking. Baking is mathematics, and precision counts. Cooking is sex: some of this, a little of that, a nudge here, a caress there. The important thing is attention to detail—watching the pot, as it were—and serving it up when it counts. Let yourself go, feel free to improvise, and nobody's going to be disappointed.

Rule two: Women do not like beans. You know why. On the other hand, beans are very important, even critical, to chili, so you're going to pulverize them until they look refried—with one of those handheld blender wands or a food processor. Doesn't matter, as long as you puree the hell out of them so the cellulose (which causes the distress) is now essentially mush.

Rule three: The burnt parts are always the best parts. If things stick to the bottom of the pot, good. Scrape them up—little flakes just add to the mélange (as Rocco would say). Savor them.

And a final warning: People will try to skim off the rib parts for themselves, which you should not allow—except for your accountant, who knows too much.

Serves six hungry men

Ingredients

1 or 2slabs baby back ribs, seasoned with salt and pepper

2large white onions

1large bunch celery

1/2cupor so olive oil

2cans (28 ounces) whole tomatoes

1can (28 ounces) tomato sauce

1can (40 ounces) kindney beans, pureed

1palmful cocoa powder, or 3 to 4 ounces chocolate syrup

1palmful chili powder

1teaspooneach salt and pepper

1/2teaspooncinnamon

2teaspoonsbrown sugar

8 to 10shakes Worcestershire sauce

Step 1

Partially precook ribs in a 450-degree oven for 45 minutes. Meanwhile, sauté the onions and celery in olive oil for 10 minutes. Add the remaining ingredients. Cook for a half hour or so, then remove the ribs from the oven, pour off the grease, cut them into two-rib sections, and add to the pot.

Step 2

Cook over medium heat for several hours, scraping up anything that sticks to the sides. After a couple of hours, you should be able to easily remove the bones from the ribs using tongs. Serve.